


Spin Me Right Round

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dogs, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5568211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bull and Dorian (literally) run into each other at the park (it's all Rocky's fault).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watch Out, Here I Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Almost_Star_Struck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almost_Star_Struck/gifts).



> I got to be your friend now, baby  
> And I would like to move in just a little bit closer
> 
> All I know is that to me  
> You look like you're lots of fun  
> Open up your lovin' arms  
> Watch out, here I come
> 
> You spin me right round, baby  
> Right round like a record, baby
> 
> Dead or Alive, "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)"  
> **********************************************  
> For [solar_windswept](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Solar_Windswept/profile) for the [Adoribull Holiday Exchange](http://anadoribullholiday.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr. I took two of their prompts, "meeting in the dog park (101 Dalmatians Style)" and "hot wax play." Because how could I resist that first one??? And then of course there was smut, so the second one showed up, too.
> 
> Anyway, whatever you celebrate, hope it was happy, and that this makes it a little happier!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's curious, Dorian's dog is a [Leonberger](http://i.imgur.com/B5wjhHN.jpg). Yes, that would be a lion dog.
> 
> And [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/1e/5c/1c/1e5c1ce3471aa8a4c4cb7dd7d3af15a7.jpg) is the picture of a French Bulldog that inspired me for this story.

"This is a bad idea."

Bull laughs and thumps Krem on the shoulder as the pet shelter's volunteer glares in outrage. "Awww, c'mon, admit it. He's cute."

Krem looks down at the dog that's currently huddled--whimpering--against Bull's shins, then back up at Bull. "He's pathetic." The volunteer glares harder, her arms crossing tightly over her chest.

"Now you're just being mean," Bull says, pretending to be hurt as he kneels to scratch the dog behind the ears. It's made harder by the dog's attempts to stay against his leg, even when it puts Bull's descending knee dangerously close to the dog's front paws.

"I'm being accurate," Krem says. He looks around the kennel at the other cages, and points to a lab mix pressing its nose to the bars of its cage. "What about that one?"

Bull glances at it and dismisses it in the space of a second. "That one doesn't need me," he says, smiling fondly at the dog still trying to wedge itself up against him. "This one does."

"That one needs a lot," Krem mutters.

He's right and Bull knows it: besides the obvious anxiety issues, the dog is thin and a little mangy. The shelter has been doing its best, but by the tag on the cage, Bull knows they've only had it a few days, not nearly long enough for regular meals to do any good. If it's even been eating them, anxious as it is.

"He's a purebred French bulldog," the shelter volunteer offers brightly, as if Bull cares one way or another.

He makes an acknowledging noise out of politeness and continues to scratch the dog behind the ears.

"Admit it," Krem says at last. "You just want him because he's a _bull_ dog."

Bull laughs, then smothers it when the sound makes the dog jump. "Okay, yeah, that's a plus, but really? How do you say no to that?"

The dog is leaning into Bull's hand now, looking up at him like he's about to deliver a steak dinner and a lifetime supply of rawhide chews. The whimpering from earlier has stopped, along with most of the shivering.

Krem sighs in a way Bull recognizes, the long-suffering sigh of a man abandoning a lost cause. "Paperwork?" he asks the volunteer, and for the first time since they came back to the kennel, she looks at him with something less than outright hostility.

###

The instant they're out of the shelter, the dog attaches himself to Bull like a furry, terrified barnacle. Krem has to drive, because when Bull tries, the dog crawls into the footwell and huddles against the pedals. No bribe or entreaty can coax him out until Bull moves to the passenger seat, at which point the dog immediately follows to curl up on his feet again.

As he turns the car on, Krem shakes his head. "You've sure got your work cut out for you, Chief."

"Healing is a journey," Bull says portentously.

Krem snorts. "In this case, a rocky one."

###

So of course Bull names the dog Rocky.

Krem tries to pretend he isn't amused.

###

"At least school's out for the summer," Bull says philosophically to Krem, a little over a month later. He's not teaching any summer sessions this year, which gives him a little more than two months to get Rocky to a place where he can be left alone all day. "So it's not like I don't have time."

From the other end of the park bench, Krem snorts his opinion without looking away from the ducks circling the lake in front of them. "And after those vet bills, you don't have the money to do anything else."

"You're telling me," Bull says. He looks down at Rocky, currently sleeping with his head on Bull's foot, and smiles. "Worth it, though."

One of the ducks upends itself to dive for something, and Rocky's head comes up at the splash. At least he doesn't run or whimper, which is a huge improvement over the first few weeks, and Bull reaches down to scratch behind his ears.

"See?" Bull says. "He's doing a lot better."

"Yeah," Krem agrees sarcastically. "He doesn't run away from ducks anymore."

"Baby steps," Bull says. "Or puppy steps?"

Krem rolls his eyes. "Something like that."

"Besides, you'd run away from ducks if they were half your size. Those birds can be vicious."

By the look on Krem's face, he's trying to imagine a duck that big, but before Bull can tease him about it, Rocky's head comes up again, and this time, he whimpers. Bull follows the line of his gaze as a dog the size of a small pony comes around a curve in the path. A fluffy, carnivorous pony.

"It's okay," Bull murmurs to Rocky, dropping a hand back to the top of his head even as he thinks, _Shit._ In the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, he'd hoped this secluded corner of the park would stay, well, secluded. They'd made a lot of progress, and Rocky hadn't shown a dislike of other dogs, but he still has a tendency to react to new things by running away. And a dog that big makes _Bull_ a little nervous.

It doesn't make him any less nervous when he sees the guy holding the leash: muscular in a wiry kind of way, but definitely not capable of stopping that dog if it decides to chase something. At least the dog is well trained enough not to strain at its leash, but so few people bother to train their dogs beyond that.

Then Bull looks again, focusing on the guy's features rather than on his ability to out-muscle his dog, and Rocky drops from his awareness for a second. The guy is _hot_ , and under any other circumstances, Bull would consider this almost-meeting an opportunity. The look the guy gives him is more assessing than interested, but it's the right kind of assessing; it's not the look a straight man gives another man.

Of course, there are miles between "interested in guys" and "interested in Bull," even leaving aside whether he's already got someone.

"Eyes front, Chief," Krem says, amused.

Bull grins at him shamelessly. "What?" he asks, keeping his voice down. "I'm allowed to look so long as I'm not leering."

The guy and his pony masquerading as a dog are coming their way, and Bull looks away from the guy long enough to admire the dog. It's got to be close to a hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle, with a thick coat shading from black at the muzzle to a golden-brown at the tail. That coat is so thick it's probably a pain to keep free of mats, with a ruff at the neck that looks a bit like a lion's.

As much as Bull appreciates the chance for a closer view of both the guy and his dog, he wishes they'd turned down another path. Rocky is leaning hard against his calf, making a noise that can't decide if it wants to be a growl or a whimper.

He knows the second the guy catches sight of them, because his stride hitches, and he hesitates. Unfortunately, the hesitation doesn't extend to a change in direction, and after a pause, he continues toward them. A brief frown wrinkles his forehead before it's smoothed away, and Bull gets the impression that the bench he and Krem are occupying had been the guy's intended destination.

It's a public park, though, and it's not like there aren't plenty of other places to sit. For Rocky's sake, Bull hopes the guy keeps right on going, even if, personally, he'll miss the view.

The guy does keep going, but only sort of. He stops about a hundred feet away and sits in a patch of sun right by the water, the dog dropping down to lie beside him. Bull's just far enough away that he can't hear anything, but he sees the guy's lips moving as he says something to his dog. Well, or to himself. Bull's more interested in watching his face than in analyzing what he might be saying.

"If you start drooling, I'm leaving," Krem mutters, and Bull swats him on the shoulder without looking.

"I'm not drooling," he says with quiet dignity. "I'm admiring."

"Looks a lot like drooling to me," Krem says. He's keeping his voice down, at least.

Bull has his mouth open on a reply when Rocky suddenly bolts to his feet, ears erect and tiny stub of a tail quivering. It's a posture Bull associates with playing, and that's not something Rocky's done much of, which is his only excuse for why his hand closes on the end of the leash about half a second too late.

"Shit," he mutters, then says it again when Rocky heads straight for the guy and his monster dog.

###

As he settles cross-legged on the grass, Dorian tries to remind himself that the park is a public place, and he can't really claim any part of it as his territory. Just because this spot is usually empty in the middle of the afternoon doesn't preclude someone else using it once in a while. He has no higher claim on that bench than anyone else.

Obviously.

"Lie down," he says to Stanton, and when the dog obeys, he adds, "Good boy," in what he always thinks of as his Reward Voice. Stanton's tail thumps on the ground a few times, but he doesn't move otherwise.

Not that Dorian expects any less. In a dog as big as Stanton, good training isn't optional, not in Dorian's opinion. Of course, in his opinion, good training shouldn't be optional for any dog, but most people don't agree.

The French bulldog currently lying under the bench that Dorian absolutely doesn't think of as his own is a perfect example. It's clear from its behavior that it's had no training at all, its owner likely thinking it unnecessary. Dorian has met far too many men with more muscles than sense, who think that their strength can somehow compensate for an undisciplined dog. He hadn't missed the look the man gave him, the clear dismissal of his ability to control a large dog, as if brute strength was the only way to accomplish that.

Dorian digs his fingers into the thick fur at Stanton's neck, scratching hard as the dog's tail wags more enthusiastically. It's hard not to smile at the sight, and Dorian deliberately lets go of his mild irritation at finding his bench occupied. The day is too beautiful to allow anything so petty to ruin it.

He's just reaching into his messenger bag for his book when Stanton's head turns, ears lifting slightly. Hand still in the bag, Dorian looks around to see that the bulldog has abandoned its place under the bench and is running straight for them. It looks more playful than threatening, but that doesn't mean Dorian has any desire to be trampled by someone else's untrained mutt.

Before he can decide on a course of action, the dog's owner lunges for the trailing end of the leash and catches it, hauling the dog up short while managing to keep himself mostly upright. It's a moderately impressive feat, actually, though Dorian would be more impressed if it hadn't been necessary in the first place.

"Sorry," the man says, looking deeply embarrassed. "I don't know what's up with him."

"It's not a problem," Dorian says coolly. As he watches, the dog pulls against its collar, straining in his direction.

"I guess he likes you?" the man offers with a tentative smile.

"I'm very likable," Dorian says, deadpan. The grin he gets in response is absolutely _not_ attractive, and he narrows his eyes against his own impulse to smile back. Between the man's scars and missing eye, not to mention the wife-beater tank-top he's wearing, Dorian can't remember the last time he saw anyone who looked more like a thug, and while he's made a large number of poor relationship decisions in his life, that's one he intends to continue avoiding.

The bulldog whimpers, and Dorian makes up his mind, letting the book slide back into the depths of his bag. "Perhaps too likable," he murmurs as he gets to his feet. "I think we might all be happier if I found somewhere else to sit."

"No, it's fine!" the man protests. "Rocky's the problem, we'll head out and leave you alone."

Rocky? _Rocky?_ Dorian barely controls a lip curl. "You were here first," he says. "And it's no trouble. Stanton, up."

Which is when everything goes to shit, in a way that would make the Three Stooges proud.

As Stanton rises slowly to his feet, Dorian hefts his messenger bag, ready to sling it back over his shoulder. It's still hanging loose from his hand, though, when the bulldog--Rocky--lunges forward, catching its owner by surprise again. This time, the man keeps a firm grip on the leash, but he staggers forward and sideways a few steps as he tries to regain his balance, and his dog takes advantage of that to close the last distance between himself and Dorian.

Startled, Dorian steps back, bumping into Stanton, who holds his position the way he was taught. In the back of Dorian's head, a little voice notes absently, "Good boy," but most of his attention is on trying not to fall on his ass, one arm windmilling as the messenger bag swings on the end of its strap and throws his balance off even more.

Into the midst of this comes the bulldog and its leash, which now has just enough slack to allow the dog to circle three quarters of the way around Dorian's legs before jerking taut. Around the backs of Dorian's knees, of course, which also happens to be exactly the right height to catch the strap of the messenger bag on its next circuit.

The worst part is that half second when Dorian can see what's coming and can't do anything to stop it.

He trips, stumbles half a step, almost regains his balance, then the tangle of leash and messenger bag jerks him sideways again and sends him staggering backward toward the lake. His weight on the leash is enough to make even Stanton lurch, and its more than enough to pull the other man forward with him.

Objectively, the water isn't that cold, but Dorian finds it difficult to be objective when plunged, fully clothed, into a silty lake, accompanied by two dogs, a brick wall of a man, and his own messenger bag. The bag that contains both his book and his phone, neither of which are likely to survive this experience intact.

Still tangled in the leashes, Dorian struggles to find his feet and can't, the bag's strap twisted around one of his arms. He has time for one interminable second of true panic as his head goes under water again, then hard hands grab him and haul him upright to sputter and curse between gasps for air.

"Fuck, man, I'm _so_ sorry, he's never done that before, I don't know what the hell just happened, but-"

Panic turns to rage quite easily, Dorian discovers. "I'll tell you what happened," he says flatly, controlling his breath despite the ache in his lungs. It's hard to be truly scathing while panting. "You elected to bring an untrained dog to a public park, and then failed to keep control of it."

He reaches into his bag--now half full of water-- and extracts his phone and book to hold up as evidence. "As a result, I'll be spending my afternoon purchasing a new phone, a new book, and possibly new clothes."

"I can pay for it," the man says, looking shame-faced. "All of it." There's a brief tightening at the corner of his eye as he looks at the phone again, and Dorian suspects he's adding up the cost to something rather more than his monthly budget can withstand. But he only repeats himself, firmly. "I'll pay for whatever needs replacing."

"I think you've done enough," Dorian snaps, too angry for sympathy. "I suggest you put the money toward a good trainer for your _dog_." He loads as much scorn as he can into the last word, turning it into an insult.

"Hey," the man protests, scooping up said dog under one arm. "It's my fault, not his."

About to issue at least one more cutting remark before slogging his way to shore, Dorian pauses. Not because he disagrees with the words, but because he'd hardly expected the man to admit it. In his experience, people with untrained dogs are quick to blame anyone but themselves for their pet's misbehavior. "Then do something about it," he says waspishly. It's weak, but there's not much else to add.

"We've been working on it," the man says. There's no defensiveness to the words; they're an explanation rather than an excuse. "It's just, I had to get him to calm down, first, and that's taken a while."

The words punch a small hole in Dorian's rage. Looking at the dog, now whimpering and trembling against its owner's side, only widens the hole. "He looks like you beat him." The words don't bite the way they were supposed to.

"I think his last owner did," the man says. Anger flashes across his face, so briefly that it's gone by the time Dorian realizes it's not aimed at him. "He's pretty jumpy."

And now Dorian feels like the biggest ass in the world, a feeling he doesn't care for very much. He swallows the apology that tries to come out, but that doesn't leave him with much to say.

Into the silence comes the sound of laughter, and not anything low or subtle. This is the howling, gasping, wheezing laugh of someone about to pass out from lack of air, someone who will consider it a fair trade for the hilarity just witnessed.

Dorian looks to his right and finds the source of the noise: the man's friend, who's now sprawled across the park bench with his arms wrapped tightly around his ribs and tears running down his face.

The anger tries to flare again, and Dorian looks back at the man responsible for this whole mess, only to find his face serious. Too serious. It's definitely the look of a man who knows he might die if he dares to crack a smile, but is considering whether it might be worth it.

There's a moment of clarity, and Dorian feels like he's standing outside himself, looking down at the situation and deciding whether to be angry or amused. For that moment, he feels neither, just weighs the relative merits of each emotion dispassionately, and in the end, he smiles.

Then chuckles.

Then laughs.

Once he's started, he can't seem to stop, and every time he thinks he has himself under control, his gaze falls on something else and he cracks up again. At first, it's just imagining what he himself looks like, wet hair plastered to his head and clothes dripping. Then he sees Stanton, looking about half his usual size with all his fur matted down, wearing what Dorian can only call a hangdog expression. The messenger bag is still full of water, draining slowly through a tiny hole in the bottom, and looking at that sends Dorian into another fit of laughter.

At last he looks up to find the other man grinning at him in relief, and for some reason, that's the most hilarious thing of all. Dorian braces his hands on his knees and just lets his head hang down as he laughs until his whole body aches.

"You okay?" the man asks, when Dorian is reduced to occasional hiccups.

"Fine, fine," Dorian says, waving one hand without straightening. "Perfectly lovely. I do so adore the smell of wet dog, I find it makes me positively giddy."

"Whatever works for you," the man says, and it's clear from his tone that he's still smiling.

Dorian levers himself upright, letting his gaze travel up the length of the man's body as he does so, and has to bite his tongue on, "Oh, I see several things that work very well for me." It makes him snort out another laugh, and he scrubs his hands quickly over his face to stifle that.

"I think what would work for me right now," he says, dropping his hands, "is to be back on dry land."

"We can make that happen," the man says. He shifts his dog higher on his hip and takes Dorian's elbow with his other hand, holding it firmly without being too firm. Rather than dragging him forward, that hand only supports Dorian's weight as he untangles himself from the leashes and wades to shore. It's positively chivalrous, which is not something Dorian has a lot of experience with.

He decides not to think about it. Which is easy enough once he's out of the water, except that he can still feel the warm press of fingers against his skin long after the man has released him, and that's more distracting than it ought to be.

As the man turns away to set his dog down, Dorian looks back at Stanton, bedraggled and pathetic, and has to choke back another laugh before he can say, "Stanton, heel," in the proper tone.

Stanton struggles up onto shore, his wet coat weighing him down, and trots over to sit beside Dorian's left foot. It's clear from the way he twitches that he wants to shake himself off, but other than those twitches, he stays still.

"I'm Bull, by the way."

Dorian looks up to find a massive hand being thrust in his direction, and he shakes it mostly on auto-pilot. Or at least, it starts out that way, but as soon as the man's fingers are wrapped around the back of his hand, Dorian finds his attention narrowing considerably. It's a nice firm handshake, and a nice warm hand, and it lingers just long enough to be more than social without edging into that creepy "I'd like my hand back now, thank you" territory.

"Dorian," he manages, in a reasonable approximation of a normal tone. Now both his right hand and his left arm are tingling pleasantly, and he resists the urge to shake both of them out.

"I really am sorry about this," Bull says, one hand gesturing up and down Dorian's body. His eye falls on the book still in Dorian's hand. "Shame to wreck a good book."

"Have you read it?" Dorian asks, looking down at the cover to hide his surprise.

"Sure," Bull says. "I've always liked her stuff." And while Dorian is still adjusting his assumptions, Bull adds, "I can give you my address, just let me know what it costs to replace everything. Book, phone, all of it."

Even angry, Dorian had had no intention of asking for reimbursement. He hadn't missed that subtle wince, and it wasn't hard to understand: replacing everything was going to cost at least a thousand dollars. Dorian doesn't like the thought of spending that much money, but it doesn't make him wince.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "And besides, I owe you an apology for my behavior earlier. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. It was very childish of me, and I apologize."

"Forget it," Bull says, waving this away. "Anybody'd be pissed, getting dumped in the water like that. You were right, too, it is my fault, so let me fix it."

"It was an accident," Dorian says.

Bull sets his jaw. "At least let me replace the phone. I know how much those things cost."

"It's fine," Dorian insists. When Bull opens his mouth to argue, Dorian adds, "I was thinking about getting a new one anyway."

That gets him a skeptical look, which is fair, since he's lying through his teeth. He's had that phone three weeks, and a new one was definitely not part of his plan this month.

"At least let me give you my number," Bull says. "If the price tag turns out to be more than you thought, let me know."

"I seem to be a little short on places to write down anything," Dorian points out. "And it doesn't matter anyway, because it's fine. Really."

Bull looks at him, and his expression shifts in a way that renews the tingling in Dorian's hand. A tingling that spreads to other parts of his body when Bull says, "Or you could give me your number." His tone is almost the same as it was before.

Almost.

Dorian feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Did you really just ask me for my number after all but pushing me into a lake?" He puts as much disbelief as he can into the words, knowing his expression doesn't match his tone in the least.

"I dunno," Bull says, not bothering to hide his own smile. "Depends."

"On what?" Dorian asks, because it's expected.

"On whether it'll get me your number, or get me slapped."

A snort of laughter slips out before Dorian can stop it. "None of the above, in this case."

"None of the above?"

"I've no desire to slap you, but I still don't have anything to write on."

"Well," Bull says, eyelid lowering slightly. "Would your answer change if I could solve that problem?"

"Maybe," Dorian allows.

The distance between them is a lot less than it was, and while Dorian would like to pretend it's Bull closing in on him, that's hard to do when Stanton is scooting forward to maintain the proper heel position. Which means Dorian is moving just as much as Bull is, and that's a little disconcerting.

He tears his eyes away from Bull's and says to Stanton, "Stay." The last thing he needs is a canine reminder that he's probably about to be very stupid.

When he looks up again, Bull is holding out his own phone.

"At least something survived," Dorian says, staring at it. Then his attention moves to Bull's clothes, and he realizes that Bull is only wet to about halfway up his thighs, rather than dripping the way Dorian is.

"I more kind of stumbled into the water," Bull says apologetically. "Rather than falling."

"But my fall was, of course, quite graceful," Dorian says.

"Of course." Bull is still smiling, but it's starting to falter at the edges as Dorian makes no move to take the phone.

Just as that smile fades completely, Dorian steps forward to wipe his damp hands on the front of Bull's shirt, locking eyes as he does so. The ridged cotton is rough, warm from contact with Bull's skin, and that tingling has definitely spread to every part of Dorian's body.

With his palms still against Bull's chest, Dorian smirks. "Wouldn't want to wreck your phone."

"That'd be terrible," Bull agrees. Under Dorian's palm, his heart is beating just a little too fast.

###

"I hate you," Krem says, when Bull flops out on the park bench, phone clutched tightly in his hand. "I really hate you."

"Why?" Bull asks, pretending to be offended.

"You just dunked a guy into some fucking gross water, and you still managed to walk away with his phone number."

"How do you know he said yes?"

Krem gives this the look it deserves. "Do you already have a date, too?"

"Friday," Bull says, supremely self-satisfied.

"I fucking hate you."


	2. Just a Little Bit Closer

On Friday night, Dorian isn't exactly sure what he's expecting, but it definitely isn't what he gets, which is dinner at a tiny Indian restaurant he's never heard of but which he'll be remembering for later, followed by a walk in the park that ends on a park bench while they watch the sun set over the lake. It's the most romantic date he's been on in years, possibly ever, and the biggest surprise of all is how much he enjoys it.

Not that the ridiculously romantic nature of the date keeps him from flirting outrageously the entire time. He finds excuses to touch Bull's hand or bare arm, to lean across the table at dinner and sit too close on the park bench. There's nothing inappropriate about any of it, but then, that's part of the fun, teasing without making it obvious to anyone else.

To his delight, Bull is only too willing to tease back, especially once they're settled in the moderate privacy of the park bench. His fingers brush lightly along the back of Dorian's neck, rubbing at the soft fuzz where his hair is shaved close before trailing along to his jaw and the curve of his ear. Dorian shivers, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Bull smile.

In retaliation, Dorian tucks himself under Bull's arm, turning slightly so his mouth is against Bull's neck when he says, "Lovely sunset, isn't it?"

Bull chuckles. "Have to take your word for it, I'm a little distracted right now."

That startles a laugh out of Dorian, and for a second, he's distracted himself, trying to remember the last time he laughed so often on a date. Laughed for real, that is, instead of feigning amusement to avoid an awkward silence or hurt feelings.

He shakes the thought off quickly--why ruin a good thing by thinking about it too hard--and says, "If neither of us is paying attention to the sunset, we could go back to my place and ignore it in private."

"I like that plan," Bull says. His finger strokes along Dorian's jaw one last time before he extricates himself and stands, offering a hand to help Dorian up.

A hand he doesn't relinquish as they begin their walk back to the car. Dorian doesn’t make any effort to reclaim it.

Bull is opening the passenger door for him, something so quaint it makes Dorian's brain cramp, when suddenly he says, "Oh, shit, I almost forgot."

"Forgot what?" Dorian asks, only half paying attention as he tries to get his thoughts back into order, smacking them like a recalcitrant computer.

In answer, Bull reaches into the back seat and produces something that he tosses into Dorian's lap. As Bull walks around the car to get into the driver's seat, Dorian picks up the whatever-it-is and stares at it.

It's a book. A new copy of the book that was ruined when he fell in the lake, to be precise.

"You didn't need to," he says as Bull starts the car. "Really."

"I ruined it, I needed to replace it." He puts his hand on the back of Dorian's seat as he twists around to back out of the parking space, but he pauses with his foot on the brake to meet Dorian's gaze. "You say you were replacing the phone anyway, but you can't tell me you were planning on buying another copy of a book you already own."

"I..." Dorian stops, closes his mouth, takes a second to actually think, then says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Bull says, smiling at him, and suddenly Dorian is aware of exactly how close they are. The car isn't that big, and with Bull twisted around like he is, it feels even smaller.

By the way Bull's pupil dilates, the same realization is hitting him, but before he can move away, Dorian leans forward and kisses him.

Bull's lips part in surprise, and Dorian takes shameless advantage of that, licking into his mouth and gripping the back of his neck. There's half a second where he thinks maybe he misread everything, that Bull isn't interested or at least, isn't interested in moving this fast, then Bull's hands are in his hair, and normally Dorian would object to having his hair mussed, but just now, he has other things on his mind.

Like the way Bull kisses. He has their mouths pressed together hard enough to make Dorian's lips ache pleasantly, but his tongue moves slow and gentle, and his hands in Dorian's hair are firm without being painful. Somewhere in the back of his head, Dorian makes a note to tell Bull that he can be more forceful, that having his hair pulled is-

The whole car jerks, throwing them both back against their seats, and Dorian gasps out, "What the fuck?"

"Foot slipped," Bull mutters, setting the parking brake with more force than necessary. Before Dorian can decide if that means he's actually upset, Bull's hands are cupping his face, pulling him in again. Just shy of kissing him, Bull pauses and says with a smile, "You're a fucking hazard, you know that?"

"How would you know?" Dorian asks, maybe a little more breathlessly than he likes. "You haven't fucked me yet."

"Yet," Bull agrees, and kisses him.

This one is quick, just a swipe of Bull's tongue across his lips. Dorian doesn't have time to make it anything more, because Bull is already pushing him gently away and reaching for the parking brake again.

The drive back to Dorian's house seems to take forever, and he presses his hands between his knees the whole way, the better to keep them to himself. He even manages not to run from the car to the front door, and he gets the key in the lock on the first try. Hand on the knob, he looks over his shoulder at Bull and smirks. "Did you want to come in for a cup of coffee or something?"

"Or something," Bull says, and he's smirking right back.

It isn't that easy, of course, not with a dog in the picture. Stanton needs to be fed and let out, and that only after he sniffs every inch of Bull he can reach. He's too well trained to jump on anyone, but even without getting up on his hind paws, he can reach pretty far.

As Dorian drums his fingers on the counter and watches Stanton run around the yard, he says apologetically, "Sorry, I suppose this is a bit of a mood killer."

"Not really," Bull says, and his tone makes Dorian look at him sharply.

"Oh?"

"It's giving me time to plan," Bull says.

"Oh." It's not the most intelligent response he's ever given, and he scrambles for something better. When nothing comes to mind, he goes for distraction instead, crossing the room to kiss Bull again. This time, he gets his whole body into it, pressing them together as if he's trying to find a way for them to violate the laws of physics, to both occupy the same space at the same time.

Bull's hands squeeze his ass, kneading the muscles through his pants as one of Bull's knees presses between his thighs. Having something hard to rub his dick against does absolutely nothing for his ability to frame a coherent sentence, and it only gets worse when Bull breaks the kiss to ask, "Want to hear the plans I'm thinking about? 'Cause I've got a couple, so you can tell me which one you like best."

"All of the above?" Dorian tries, and he likes the way it feels, Bull laughing against him.

###

Bull, it turns out, is quite good at planning. Certainly Dorian has no complaints, not when he spends the rest of the evening so hard he can't even think straight. About the only time he manages to catch his breath is when Bull digs through the bedside drawer for condoms and comes up with one of the candles Dorian keeps there.

"Emergency lighting?" Bull asks with a raised eyebrow and a faint smirk.

Dorian raises an eyebrow back. Of all his myriad kinks, that's the one he's least inclined to be ashamed of, even on his bad days. "What do you think?"

"I think we could have some fun," Bull says.

A pleasant surprise, but... "Not right now," Dorian says. "Do you know how long it takes for them to melt down?"

"Yup," Bull says matter-of-factly, and that's an even more pleasant surprise.

Still, not one Dorian's particularly interested in pursuing just now. What he wants is for Bull to make good on the filthy promises he was whispering in Dorian's ear a minute ago. Now. Not in thirty minutes, or an hour, or however long it takes for the candles to melt enough to be useful.

Bull doesn't seem inclined to protest, abandoning candles in favor of condoms without hesitating, and Dorian forgets the whole thing within seconds. He's much more interested in what Bull is doing right now than in what Bull might do later.

###

It's still dark when Bull wakes, but then, it usually is. During the school year, he has to be up at four, and he likes to stick to the same schedule over the summer. However late he goes to bed, somehow he never sleeps past five, and only rarely past four-thirty.

Not that he usually sleeps with anyone who appreciates being woken up at that unholy hour, so he's gotten good at slipping quietly out of bed and making himself a cup of coffee in almost complete silence. It's not like the average kitchen is hard to figure out, and Dorian's is organized about how Bull expects. Within ten minutes, he's got coffee and a decent idea of what he might make for breakfast, whenever Dorian's up and moving.

The weather is still nice this early in the morning, and he sits on the back step with his mug while Dorian's dog runs a few happy laps around the yard. All new scents accounted for, the dog eventually flops out on his feet, panting lightly and giving him a doggy grin.

"Who's a good boy?" Bull croons to him, leaning down to rub between his ears. "Yeah, you're a good boy." Okay, so he probably sounds like an idiot, but the dog doesn't care, and he proves it by leaning harder against Bull's shins.

When the clock finally rolls over to five, Bull calls Krem, who answers halfway through the second ring with an exasperated, "I'd've told you six, if I'd known you had out your fucking stopwatch."

"Just checking on my guys," Bull protests with a laugh.

"We're fine, Chief." There's a rustling noise, then Krem's voice again, more distant than before. "Say hi, Rocky."

Rocky whuffles against the phone--at least, Bull assumes it's Rocky--and then Krem is back, saying, "See? We're fine."

"Glad to hear it," Bull says, still grinning. "You good for another few hours?"

"Since I'm going back to sleep as soon as you stop talking, yeah, I think we're fine." Krem mumbles something to Rocky, then adds affectionately, "Even if your dog is the worst bed hog in the world."

"You just gotta let him know who's boss."

"Yeah, right," Krem says around a yawn. "You have any other pearls of wisdom, or can I hang up now?"

"I'll come pick him up about noon?" Bull asks.

"That's more than a couple hours," Krem says.

"Or I can be there in-"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Krem mutters. "We're fine, I'm just giving you shit. Go bang what's-his-name some more, we'll see you at noon."

Before Bull can answer, Krem makes good on his earlier threat and ends the call.

At his feet, Dorian's dog cocks his head, which Bull takes as a request for another scratch behind the ears, something he's happy to provide.

He drinks two leisurely cups of coffee, the dog keeping him company as the sun rises along with the temperature. By six-thirty, he's sweating lightly and the dog has his furry head on Bull's knee, giving him the full-court press on pathetic, "I'm starving" looks.

"All right, you," Bull says as he finishes his second cup. "Breakfast?" The dog perks up at the word, and Bull laughs, tugging gently at one ear. "Boss man never feeds you, huh?"

"He lies like a rug," Dorian says from behind him.

Bull turns sideways to find him standing in the doorway onto the porch, hands braced on either side of the frame, wearing loose sweatpants but no shirt. "Kind of a lumpy rug, don't you think?" Bull asks with a smile.

Dorian smiles back, but there's something odd about the expression, and Bull wonders if he's going to get kicked out before he gets a chance to eat breakfast. Some guys aren't much for morning-afters, but just because it's happened before doesn't mean Bull likes it.

Hoping to forestall whatever thought has Dorian tense, Bull asks, "You hungry? I could make omelets."

"And you cook, too?" Dorian asks in mock surprise. His smile is easier as he crosses the porch to crouch down and scratch the dog under the chin. "I never say no when handsome men offer to cook me breakfast, even if they do get me out of bed before sunrise."

"Sunrise was forty minutes ago," Bull says.

Dorian gives him a look, one eyebrow cocked disdainfully. "I wouldn't know. I try to avoid seeing it." There's a smile twitching the corner of his mouth as he says it, and Bull gives in to temptation and kisses him.

The dog's head loses its place on Bull's knee as Dorian crawls into his lap without breaking the kiss, his ass grinding down deliberately as his legs wrap around Bull's waist. Under the loose sweatpants Dorian is wearing, his dick is half hard and pressing against Bull's stomach.

Bull strokes his hands up the insides of Dorian's thighs, framing his cock without touching it. "Is that for me?" he asks with the best cheesy-eyebrow-waggle he can manage.

"It _was_ ," Dorian says archly. "Except I woke up, and you weren't there."

There's the tiniest plaintive edge to the words, and by the way Dorian's eyes shift away, it wasn't supposed to be there at all. It makes Bull grin, though; he definitely prefers a Dorian who was tense because he thought Bull had snuck out in the middle of the night, rather than because he's getting ready to evict a guest who's stayed too long at the party.

"So," Bull says, leaning forward to lick the hollow of Dorian's throat. "A friend's got Rocky until noon, and I don't have anywhere else to be. Any ideas for ways to kill a couple hours?"

"I could make some suggestions," Dorian says. "Though you did have some excellent ideas last night."

Bull sucks gently on the skin over his collarbone. "I'm game for pretty much anything, so long as I get breakfast first."

Dorian huffs out a laugh against the side of his head. "We can probably manage that." His fingers rub at Bull's neck, pleasantly firm, and Bull hums contentedly. "But either way, we should go inside."

"This is kind of nice," Bull protests, mostly for form's sake.

"It is," Dorian agrees. "However, I don't see any omelets, and we're absolutely not having sex on my back porch. Which means all the things I want require us to adjourn to the inside. Though you can always stay out here while I entertain myself."

"Meeting adjourned!" Bull declares, popping to his feet as fast as forty-year-old joints and a lapful of Dorian allow. "What do you like in your omelet?"

"Eggs," Dorian says with a straight face, looking back over his shoulder as he leads the way to the kitchen. "Definitely eggs."

"I don't know if I can handle that," Bull says doubtfully. "Kinda strange, don't you think?"

"I have absolute faith in you," Dorian says, still without cracking a smile. At least, his mouth isn't smiling, but his eyes are crinkling at the corners, and Bull thinks seriously about postponing breakfast.

Except he is hungry, and Dorian probably is, too, and if they eat now, then there's a good chance he can convince Dorian to stay in bed with him for the rest of the morning, and that's worth a little delayed gratification.

###

"So what do you like in your omelet?" Bull asks.

They're in the kitchen now, Dorian pulling ingredients from the fridge to spread them over the kitchen island. The dog is happily scarfing up his breakfast in the corner, chasing down kibble with the kind of enthusiasm Rocky has only just begun to show.

"I'm fine with any of this," Dorian says as he sets a carton of eggs between an onion and a pair of green peppers. Bull looks up at him in time to catch a shrug. "Whatever suits you. And I can chop, if you like."

He's already reaching for a knife when Bull catches his hand. "I got it," Bull says. "Let me make you breakfast."

"While I stand here and watch?" Dorian asks, eyebrows up.

"If you want," Bull says, picking up one of the green peppers to begin peeling off its sticker. Without looking at Dorian, he adds casually, "Or you could go back upstairs to bed, and wait for me there."

"Breakfast in bed?"

Without raising his head, Bull looks up at him and grins. "Why not? Then we won't have to go anywhere after we eat."

Dorian's mouth curls in a slow smile. "I see you already have plans for this morning."

"Unless you've got stuff you need to do," Bull says. If the look Dorian's giving him is anything to go by, the answer is no, but Bull likes to be sure.

"Just you," Dorian says, his smile now an all-out grin.

"Well then," Bull says. He sets the green pepper down so he can cup Dorian's face in both hands, pulling him across the island for a quick kiss. "Why don't you go upstairs?"

"Anything in particular I should do while I wait?" His tone is mock-coy.

"Light a few candles?" Bull suggests. "For, you know. Emergency lighting."

"I...what?" Dorian blinks at him.

"All those candles you've got in your nightstand," Bull says, wondering if maybe he misread Dorian's expression last night. Or if he's just not in the mood for that today. "I mean, if you want. No big deal if not."

"No, I just..." Dorian shakes his head. "You surprised me."

Bull circles the island so he can put his hands on Dorian's hips, pulling him in so their bare chests are pressed together. "How about this? Go on upstairs, and I'll bring breakfast in about twenty minutes or so. We'll eat, and you can tell me what you want to do." He leans down for a kiss, grins against Dorian's mouth. "Since we did what I wanted last night."

"Yes, it was quite terrible for me," Dorian says. "Being subjected to your depravities."

"So subject me to some depravities this morning." With a last kiss, he lets go of Dorian and steps back. "After breakfast."

###

It takes him more than twenty minutes to make one huge omelet and two cups of coffee, but not too much more, and eventually he's climbing the stairs with careful steps, one eye on the orange juice sloshing in its glass. He's pressed a baking sheet into service as a tray, and the silverware rattles against the metal every time the tray shifts by an inch, warning Dorian he's coming long before he makes it to the bedroom. When he gets there at last, he pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene.

Because it's definitely a scene, staged for his benefit. The curtains have been drawn closed over the windows, and most of the light in the room is from a bunch of candles on the bedside table. Other than the candles, the only things on the nightstand are a bottle of lube and a couple condoms. Dorian is sprawled naked on the bed, stroking his cock slowly, looking straight at Bull with a smile that acknowledges the staging without undermining it in the least.

Bull smiles back, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed with the tray in his lap. "Gonna be _hard_ to eat while doing that."

Dorian's eyes glint in appreciation of the pun, but he doesn't say anything, just drops his hand and moves so he's sitting cross-legged beside Bull. "I see coffee," he says, claiming one of the mugs for himself. "For this alone, you are a god among men."

"I'm hoping there might be a couple other reasons," Bull says, handing Dorian a knife and fork. "But we'll get to those later."

"I certainly hope so," Dorian says, cutting off a small bite of the omelet. He eats it, and sighs contentedly. "This is wonderful, thank you."

Bull shrugs one shoulder. "It's an omelet, they're pretty easy."

"And yet," Dorian murmurs, but he doesn't finish the sentence, just takes another bite, and Bull doesn't push him.

They eat in comfortable silence after that, Dorian's knee resting against Bull's thigh, warm through the fabric of his jeans. It's not overtly sexual, but Bull is aware of Dorian's nakedness, of the candles burning down on the bedside table, and he's halfway to hard by the time he downs the last of the orange juice.

"So," he says as he sets the tray on the floor, out of the way. "What's the plan?"

Dorian's eyes jump to the candles, and a smile lifts one corner of his mouth. "I suppose that depends on you. Have you ever done this before?"

In answer, Bull picks up one of the candles and blows it out, tilting it so a few drops of wax spatter against the inside of his forearm. It's hot--of course it is--but not too hot, not the kind of hot that's unsafe. He nods approvingly, then looks back up at Dorian, not bothering to hide his smile. "Yeah, a couple times."

"So I gathered," Dorian says. His eyes are fixed on the wax cooling on Bull's arm. "I suppose that just leaves the question of which side you prefer to be on."

"I'm easy," Bull says. He hesitates, then cups the back of Dorian's head, pulling him in to whisper in his ear, "But right now, I'd like to stretch you out on this bed and paint your skin with this. I'll bet you'd look gorgeous like that, white wax all over that pretty brown skin."

"I always look gorgeous," Dorian says, breathless under the expected arrogance.

"Gorgeous-er, then," Bull says, just for the way it makes Dorian twitch.

"Gorgeous-er?" he demands.

Bull nuzzles the skin behind his ear. "You gonna correct my grammar, or you gonna lie down?"

It takes Dorian about two seconds to get himself into position, belly down on the bed with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, centered on a towel that Bull hadn't seen until he tossed back the blankets.

Despite the obvious signs that Dorian's done this before, Bull says, "Let me know if it gets too much."

"Unlikely," Dorian says into the mattress, "but yes, of course."

Bull swats him on the ass, and notes with interest that Dorian almost purrs, hips rocking to drive his dick down against the mattress. That's for another day, not something he's prepared to leap into without a conversation first, but he can't help but be a little turned on by the thought.

Of course, if he wants there to be a next time, he'd better make sure this time is good.

With that thought in mind, he relights the candle in his hand and puts it back on the nightstand before stripping out of his jeans. Standing beside the bed gives him a perfect view of Dorian, whose legs slip a little apart, as if he knows he's being watched. Just looking at him is making Bull's cock harder. He spends a moment longer enjoying the anticipation, then he kneels on the bed across Dorian's thighs.

The candles have had plenty of time to burn down, and when Bull picks up the closest, a little of the wax overflows onto his fingers. The heat is nice, and at least he knows this candle, like the other one, doesn't burn too hot. He's seen that happen, candles from the same box that weren't actually the same, and he's learned to be cautious.

Dorian gasps as the first drops of wax hit his skin, his body tensing under Bull's even though the candle is a couple feet above his back, giving the wax plenty of time to cool. "Okay?" Bull asks.

"Oh yes," Dorian breathes, and Bull draws a long line down his spine, watching the wax pool as Dorian's muscles twitch. He pours slowly, timing it so that the line reaches from between Dorian's shoulder blades almost to the base of his spine, just short of his ass. There's a little wax left, so he lets it splash down on one ass cheek, watching the drops turn hard and opaque as they cool.

He picks up the next candle and just holds it for a second while he thinks, blowing it out almost idly. So many choices, but eventually he drips a bit on his wrist and then lets the rest of the wax splash down all at once across Dorian's shoulders.

This time, Dorian doesn't tense or twitch: he _bucks_ , a full-body spasm that shoves his ass against Bull's dick as he groans, deep in his chest. "More," he whispers, before Bull can ask, and as short as the word is, it still shakes a little. "Please."

Bull is only too happy to continue his experiments, holding the candles lower and lower as he pours, and it becomes clearer by the minute that Dorian loves the heat. As he plays, Bull alternates between smooth lines and quick splashes until it becomes equally clear that Dorian likes the surprise, the unexpected shock of heat rather than a line that he can anticipate.

Watching him gets Bull completely hard, and it would even without Dorian's ass occasionally rubbing against his dick. It's easy to enjoy Dorian's enjoyment because he makes no effort to hide it, gasping and arching every time the wax splashes down, rocking his hips if Bull runs fingernails down the inside of his thighs, murmuring encouragement whenever Bull pauses for too long.

When they're down to two candles, Bull shifts their positions, spreading Dorian's legs wide enough that he can kneel between them. Careful to keep his chest off the cooling wax, Bull leans forward to kiss the short hair behind Dorian's ear and ask, "Can I fuck you?"

"God, yes, _please_." Dorian half turns, his eyes dark under half-closed lids, and Bull twists around enough to kiss him. It's awkward and messy, but worth it for the way Dorian groans another _"please"_ into his mouth.

The lube and condom are right there on the bedside table, and Bull collects them as he straightens. Dorian has his face buried in the pillows now, his ass arching a little ways off the bed in clear invitation. Some of the wax cracks with the movement, revealing skin in dark lines that stand out sharply against the white.

As he rolls on the condom, Bull watches Dorian's hips rock, pressing his dick down into the mattress and then lifting his ass in the air. It's mesmerizing, so much so that he kneels for longer than he should, admiring the view, until Dorian makes an impatient noise and reminds him what he's supposed to be doing.

He slicks the fingers of one hand and pours some lube between the cheeks of Dorian's ass, then trades the lube for one of the last two candles. Dorian's back bows again, widening the cracks in the cooled wax, and Bull follows those gaps, trickling hot wax between them where Dorian is least expecting it. He gasps and jerks, and just as his body relaxes, Bull fucks him with one finger, making him gasp and jerk again.

Dorian mumbles something into the pillows, and Bull pauses to ask, "You good?"

"Don't stop," Dorian orders, raising his head long enough to make the words clear.

Now there's a command Bull's happy to follow. Smiling, he tilts the candle a little more, letting wax run over the tops of Dorian's shoulders, one of the few unmarked places left on his skin. While the drops are still rolling downward, Bull adds a second finger, enjoying the way Dorian pushes back against his hand. He moves the candle again, splashing wax on the outside of Dorian's upper arm, letting it cool as his fingers twist and thrust.

He pours the rest of that second-to-last candle slowly, drawing it out, tiny drops here and there rather than big splashes in one place, and all the while his fingers fuck Dorian open. It's hot as hell, watching Dorian writhe under the two sensations, hearing him moan and beg for more even if the words are unintelligible.

Getting him up on his knees is as easy as touching his hip, and he looks so good like that Bull leans down to kiss the back of his neck, right above the wax that's dripped almost to his hairline. He presses his chest to Dorian's back, feeling the smooth ridges of the wax along with one or two bright bursts of heat where it hadn't quite cooled yet, enjoying the way Dorian's body curves into his.

A little reluctantly, he uncurls himself, warmth spreading through his gut at the way Dorian tries to follow him up to maintain the contact. "Don't move," Bull says, putting a gentle hand on his neck, and the warmth spreads when Dorian grumbles a protest.

Protesting or not, he drops his shoulders back to the bed, and Bull strokes his hip lightly, murmuring, "Yeah, just like that."

Dorian shivers, then shivers again as Bull's thumb teases at his hole. It's tempting to keep that up, to tease him until he begs some more, but Bull isn't feeling very patient himself right now. If he's going to tease, it's not going to be with his thumb.

Just for good measure, Bull strokes a little more lube over his cock before lining up their bodies and pressing into Dorian slowly, so slowly he has to grit his teeth. Beneath him, Dorian moans and fights against Bull's hands on his hips, muttering the occasional mostly-incoherent plea for more. Which Bull is happy to give him. Just...slowly.

That slow slide is so good it's almost painful, but eventually they're pressed together, Dorian's thighs trembling against his. Bull runs a hand up and down his leg and says, "Can you jerk yourself off?"

Dorian makes a vaguely affirmative noise, shifting his weight to bring one hand down to his cock, and Bull grunts at the way the movement shifts other things. As Dorian strokes himself, Bull begins to fuck him, slow and steady.

Rhythm established, he takes a hand off Dorian's hip to grab the last candle, blowing it out with a breath that isn't quite even. He can tell by the tension in Dorian's body that he's anticipating the heat, so Bull waits, letting him get lost again in fucking himself between Bull's dick and his own fist. He's breathing faster now, almost panting, but Bull keeps waiting, hand poised.

Dorian twists under him, breath coming out in a high whine, and Bull takes that as his cue. This time, he pours the wax on Dorian's hip, letting gravity take it down his ribs toward his armpit. Dorian's body clenches, his ass tightening around Bull's cock, and it's Bull who's left gasping as the drips slow and stop.

He waits again, feeling the tension build, then pours the last of the wax down the outside of Dorian's thigh, where he isn't expecting it. Another spasm wracks Dorian's body, and he chokes on a small cry as he comes, back arching and hand clenching into a fist in his own hair.

When he's stopped shaking, Bull reaches down and strokes the fingers still tangled in his hair. "Okay?" he asks softly. He wants to move so badly, his own muscles starting to tremble with the strain of holding still, but he doesn't let any of that show in his voice.

Dorian's hand unclenches, and he turns his head enough to see Bull. "Are you going to fuck me or not?" he asks with a lazy smile. He's still breathless and red-faced, and that smile has to be one of the sexiest things Bull's ever seen.

"Do you _want_ me to fuck you?" Bull asks, mostly teasing, because it's pretty clear Dorian does.

"If you have to ask," Dorian purrs, shoving his ass back against Bull, "I'm doing something wrong."

As he sets the candle back on the nightstand, Bull considers telling him he's doing something very right, but he'd rather save his breath for other things.

He starts slow, hands loose on Dorian's hips, trying to gauge whether Dorian really is all right with this, whether it's hurting him-

Dorian plants his hands on the headboard and turns Bull's next careful thrust into something a lot harder and faster. Bull makes a noise, and even he isn't sure whether it's a laugh or a gasp. "That a hint?" he asks.

"A hint?" Dorian asks, shifting his weight to brace himself more firmly. "Was it that subtle?"

This time, it's definitely a laugh, but it doesn't stay that way for long, not when Dorian rocks forward and then back, fucking himself on Bull's dick. Bull swears quietly and takes a bruising grip on his hips, snapping his own forward to meet the next backward thrust. Dorian moans, fingers pressing against the headboard hard enough to turn the nails white, and Bull gives up on control.

He lets his body do what it's been wanting to do for a while now, pounding into Dorian with increasing force, driving into him until his entire world has narrowed down to just the two of them, to Dorian's skin, sticky with wax, and Dorian's ass, squeezing around him, and Dorian's voice, saying his name like it's some kind of prayer.

One last thrust, burying himself deep, and he comes in a shuddering rush, body curling involuntarily around Dorian's as electric heat runs up and down every nerve. His brain whites out completely, leaving him unable to do anything but cling to Dorian and suck in air that smells of wax and warm skin.

After the fog begins to clear, he doesn't lean away immediately, and Dorian makes no effort to shrug him off. If anything, Dorian seems even less eager to move than Bull, pressing his hand over top of Bull's where it still rests on his hip. They can't stay like that forever, though, and eventually Bull shifts, freeing himself as gently as he can.

Cleanup takes a little while, but they managed not to get wax on the sheets, and Dorian seems to enjoy Bull peeling it away from his skin a little bit at a time. He gets as much off as he can, and a hot shower gets rid of the rest, Bull taking his time washing Dorian's back.

Out of the shower and back in the bedroom, Dorian hesitates between the bed and the dresser. He's so carefully not-looking at Bull, he might as well be staring.

"Thought you didn't have anywhere to be?" Bull asks, making sure Dorian can hear the smile in his voice.

"I don't," Dorian says with a shrug that almost manages to be casual. "But I thought you might prefer to get on with your day, and I wouldn't want to interfere with that."

Bull looks deliberately at the bed, then back at Dorian. "Personally, I'm thinking about a nap. Want to join me?"

Dorian's mouth twitches. "Seeing as you had me up with the sun, I can't say I'd object to a nap."

That's all the permission Bull needs to drag him back to bed. They're both still warm from the shower, so he only pulls up the sheet, but he doesn't let the heat stop him from wrapping an arm and a leg around Dorian.

"You prefer full-contact napping, I see," Dorian says.

Bull cracks open one eye, but Dorian's face is hidden against his chest. "I like to cuddle."

"I can tell," Dorian says. "I think the average boa constrictor cuddles with less enthusiasm." Despite the words, his arm hasn't moved from around Bull's back, and he's busy twisting their legs together more firmly.

"There's a joke about trouser snakes in there somewhere," Bull says.

Dorian snorts. "There will be absolutely no puns in bed. Now go to sleep."

"Or maybe that was an invitation to eat you?"

"Your napping privileges can be revoked, you know."

"Shutting up." He turns his face down to nuzzle Dorian's damp hair with his nose, then makes a liar out of himself by asking, "You got plans for next weekend?"

"I don't know," Dorian asks. "Do I?"

"I'm hoping the answer is no," Bull says, "so I can maybe make it yes."

Dorian laughs and leans up to kiss him on the mouth. "I think there's a reasonable chance of a yes, if you're the one asking." He presses another kiss to Bull's chin and then to his throat before snuggling back down against his chest. "Just so we're clear, I'm going to sleep now. You should do the same."

So Bull does.


End file.
